Huns Whittle

I but a lonely marionette who has lost its strings. Subtle as the inkwell in the shadow of my mysterious, inhaling the charm of my debonair. Dripping tallow of my poetic mother's milk upon the parchment of death's memento. Cast away into depravity hidden in a hatbox, holding me hostage from my innuendos. Listening to the stipend of darkness call the dervishes of twilight the way the echoes go. Where the Huns wish to whittle my wood as a totem of dark.